


i wished away the last year, it was the worst of times.

by the_ocean_weekender



Series: the lover must struggle for words [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Metaphors, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War I, Romance, Season/Series 05, also emotionally constipated, also swearing, and an unpleasant person, and some nummy angst, jimmy is an angry boi, lots of metaphors, more swearing, oh! and some classissm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: title from when christmas comes by los campesinosalternate end to season fiveJimmy has no option but to take Thomas back to London with him. He's never had a choice when it comes to Thomas, but this time he refuses to run away.





	i wished away the last year, it was the worst of times.

March 1923

Jimmy comes awake with his face wet and tasting salt on his tongue. He scrubs it all away before he looks in the cracked mirror set into the cupboard door; he wants to mourn who he was a decade ago, but he was a horrible person then and he hasn't improved since. Drowning in blood and waking gasping for air on a sea of tangled bed sheets grey as the sky in through the window, and yet the number of times he has survived _that_ and still it hasn't killed off the cruelty in him. The sneers and the sulks and the selfishness.

He'd only been in the trenches two weeks total, but he'd been a base rat before that and sometimes the hospital foisted its better sods off there for a while, and some of them sods had been suffering shell shock and he had laughed with all the others who did, may God have mercy on his soul. Jimmy cannot remember the last time he laughed. He can't remember the last time he wasn't exhaling regret with every breath, and he can't remember his mother's face, and he thinks it serves him right. This is what his sins have reaped him.

_And what does that make Thomas?_ he ponders, thoughts changing current when the clock on the mantelpiece ticks five and reminds him of why he's here.

Mr. Barrow. Cigarette smoke. Cold. Kissing him in the middle of the night. Blood everywhere. Thomas suited and booted and bleeding out in the trenches; lying dead with his cigarette still burning.

Jimmy throws the clock in the cupboard and storms out of the room.

***

The morning frost shatters under his shoes and it only makes Jimmy stomp down harder. It’s spring, but the world is still cold. Has been since Jimmy can remember and it probably says something about him that the last time he felt something other than freezing was when he woke up to Thomas kissing him in his sleep. The touch had burned him through and stupid as he is, Jimmy took it for anger. Jimmy’s never been good at keeping what he craves and he can’t help but ruin what he loves and if it turns out he needs that same thing _well tough_. The world is a big game of feelings and he’s at least prepared to reap what he sows.

(He can’t hold anything without tainting it somehow.)

Yesterday, Thomas woke up and they held hands and Jimmy had to keep his eyes open because he felt too cold to be alive, and- _that_ makes Jimmy angry; the familiar orange fury boiling up through his ribs to seize him like he always wanted an embrace to feel. Thomas should never have had to get so cold. He’s Jimmy’s _friend_ , first and foremost; there’s a fierce, proud heart packed underneath his coal-black shoulders, hidden down deep under layers and layers of snow and ash, and he doesn’t deserve for it all to collapse like a house of cards and extinguish him until he’s gone in an exhale of cigarette smoke. He- he loves Jimmy. That’s his only crime- seeing gold in what’s just a cheap layer of gilt covering up evil. It scares said-evil shitless because _he might be a good person_ and _I don’t deserve this_ and mostly because _I can’t do this_. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t- he’s the only thing left burning inside Thomas and he’s going to fuck it up- he already has- Thomas is in hospital- Thomas is in hospital- this is responsibility- this hurts- Jimmy starts to run.

It's useless- he’s running _towards_ the hospital, for Christ’s sake. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He won’t stop. Something in him won’t stop. He needs to see Thomas. He _wants_ to see Thomas.

The town hall clock strikes five and the cobbles fade to gravel and grass and more frost and crunching and cracked mud and bones and he falls and there’s wet grass between his fingers and mud, mud everywhere deep down and there’s no place where you can dig and not bring up a body. Much like his mind. _If I dig, what will I find?_

Thomas.

He staggers to his feet and carries on- slower, this time. Gentle, so his shoes don’t make a sound.

***

Jimmy comes swimming out of the fog and winces at the squeak of the hospital linoleum. He’s shaking, though not from cold, which maybe is why the girl on the reception gives him such a look of disdain: she reckons he’s one of those poor bastards with the shell-shock. Or maybe she just don’t like the dirt under his nails and the footprints he’s tracked in or how early he’s visiting. He lost all track of time after he passed the street you turn down to get to the bakery and the hospital clock stropped working at quarter to three one day and no one has bothered to fix it or send for a new one.

It annoys him every time he sees it, but he doesn’t know why. Just that it doesn’t annoy him the same way the girl on the desk does.

With the icy stare of a matron in the making, she insists on leading him down the stark corridors with a muttering about ‘before breakfast’. Jimmy nearly snaps back that she’s a cow, and leaving the desk probably isn’t a good idea, and Thomas has hardly eaten the last two breakfasts he’s been given and Dr Clarkson took him aside yesterday and beseeched him to make the man _eat_ , only he holds his tongue because _it’s just not worth it_.

(That’s a change in him, and it scares him. It feels like a death.)

Every time Jimmy fears a corpse to greet him. Every time, he wonders if that would be better.

He brightens when he raises his head and sees Jimmy being led in akin to an errant child- like a chink in the clouds. Jimmy feels himself smile like a loony, and it's not even dimmed when the girl leaves and impales him with an icy look.

"Hullo." Thomas greets, shifting himself upright with a wince barely hidden by his pyjamas. The sight finally lets Jimmy breathe. Yanks the vice off his chest and his ribs scream in gratitude.

"Hullo yourself," Jimmy retorts. Yanks the curtains round the bed as an 'up yours' to the girl's retreating back (she doesn't look round to see, bitch.) There's no privacy here or there or anywhere; he's sick and tired of having to creep about and whisper as if he's an animal scurrying in a cage.

Thomas is silent whilst he jams the curtain hem under the chair legs and it's only once he's thrown himself into the chair with a huff that he raises an eyebrow and says, "You're early."

"Well." Jimmy stops himself. An idea is a fragile thing; Thomas is as like to refuse just to be contrary as he is to agree. If Thomas kisses his feet in gratitude, Jimmy will slap him. Kill him. "Would you rather I left?"

"No," he replies immediately. Jimmy is cringing but tries not to let it show.

"You'd better not." It gets him a smile, which is better than nothing, but Jimmy's skin is crawling with the _eyes_ he can feel. They're vultures’ playthings, he seethes, clenching the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles bleach white. He stands. "Do you want a smoke?"

"Alright."

"Come _on_ then!"

It's a close call if he's going to make Thomas do everything himself, but when he tries to get his battered skeleton into his dressing gown (he's lost so much weight, _Jesus_ ) Jimmy gives in lest the elder man ends up toppling over and earns himself another day in this disinfected prison. "C'mere!" he grumbles, and he yanks the fabric around his shoulders and bundles him up as tight as he can. "Ready?"

Thomas nods.

(Jimmy turns away before the trust there makes him vomit.)

"Right then."

They go.

Watching proud Mr Barrow slowly walk out to the gardens and gingerly sit down and carefully light a cigarette an Jimmy just wishes him dead because surely that can't be worse than the indignity of this. Seeing Thomas again is like a punch in the chest and a black hole all at once- he lets Jimmy breathe, but it's a force only the insane would call a lifeline and- that's love, isn't it?

Surely. surely death will be better than this.

"Jimmy?"

"What?"

He frowns. "Nothing."

_Stop behaving like a child!_ Instead, he looks over. Thomas is restless and unwell and pale and miserable and not that different from how he used to look at Downton. If it wasn't for the aura of misery hanging over him and the bags under his eyes like bruises, Jimmy wouldn't be able to tell the difference- and no one at Downton knew the difference- well why the fuck didn't they- they should have they should have they should have- it's all so mightily unfair- it's fucking unfair- Thomas looks sick and fragile- why did they let him keep working- what did you do to yourself Thomas?- he did this to himself- he did this- Jimmy's going to kill everyone- Thomas gets to his feet as if it hurts to stand- it probably does- his arm is still infected and bandaged- it must hurt- he's standing the same way he would if I buggered him last night- oh shit.

"Thomas?"

"What?"

"Nothing?"

Thomas starts to pace, clearly agitated and skittish like a newborn colt. "When are they going to let me leave here?"

Jimmy closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look at him, "They didn't say." He loops an arm round Thomas' shoulder to keep him steady. It's still dark outside; too dark for stars, the only light that which chinks in from behind the curtained windows and Thomas is a ghost in a shroud. They shouldn't be out here, but you aren't allowed to smoke in the hospital and Thomas needs _something_ inside of him, even if it won't last, so smoke will have to do until Jimmy's idea comes home to roost.

It's a shame- Jimmy dreamt the other night that they stood in the trenches together and the smoke came crawling through the barbed wire and wrapped round them tight enough they could hold hands in front of men and God and no one could see.

***

When breakfast comes round, Jimmy gladly flees the look in Thomas eyes, and if there's disappointment in them he doesn't turn back to see. Jimmy's got a plan, and it has to be done _now_. He hops a ride on the back of the milk float all the way up to Downton. Briefly considers traipsing round to go through the front door like he's no less than any of them.

Instead, he caves; compromises by marching into the servants' hall like he owns the place, which isn't so different from when he used to still work there, to be honest.

Dingy and dull and dreary and the feeling of 'dead inside' swarms over without hesitation. It's worth it to see Carson choke on his tea. _Fuck him_ , Jimmy sneers to himself, storming up the stairs. At some point they've moved a clock to the third landing and Jimmy forgets his anger and runs past it and keeps running until he's chucking Thomas' remaining possessions into his bag and biting down the scream gathering in his heart. He's vaguely aware that on the periphery of his rage Miss Baxter has appeared and is hovering at the open door. "Get out," Jimmy snarls at her and it's a surprise when she does-- she's more like Thomas than she wants to be, sneaking around where she shouldn't and isn't wanted.

Well, tough. They didn't- they _don_ ' _t_ want Thomas. He shan't let them have him now. They're never going to have him again. Fuck them.

(And if there's irony in the fact that he acted like he didn't want Thomas either, when Thomas wanted him, Jimmy buries it down deep.)

***

"And where will you be taking him, James?" asks Mrs Hughes.

"Jimmy." Jimmy snaps to hide how much she's startled him.

"James?"

"No. _No._ You don't- _i don't work for you bastards any more_. You don't get to call me that. And it's none of your business where we'll go- why are you asking now, anyway? You didn't bother about him all that time, so don't act as if you care now, when it's come back to bite you on the arse."

"Language," Mrs Hughes says primly but fuck her- let Carson fuck her- fuck them all and fuck the world if they're all going to condemn him anyway fuck them fuck them fuck them. Jimmy slams the case shut to drown out the clock chiming below- whose idea was it to move it there, anyway? Waking everyone up at all hours of the night. Fuck them. Fuck them all, they only hide behind their manners anyway.

"I came to tell you that if you and Thomas wanted to take a cab o the train station, you would be more than welcome. Mr Carson will have no objections to it, and nor shall his Lordship. I realize it's too little too late, but- please, Jimmy. Please?"

Jimmy rounds on her. "If it had been anyone else, you would have _said something._ You would have- you would have cared!"

"Yes." Mrs Hughes replies to is anger a sea of calm. Which is worse than if she were disgusted or in a temper right back. She cares and she is sad and she is sorry and it isn't enough. Jimmy wonders what it would be like to feel whole. "But I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice: Thomas isn't the easiest of people to get along with."

"Mr Barrow to you."

" _Mr Barrow_ is a hard man to like."

“Yeah. Why is it the 'unlikeable' sorts are always those that aren't like you? "

Her face hardens. For an instant Jimmy regrets it all, wants to cry in her arms like a child- say he's sorry- say they'll get a taxi- regret for her- she's as fucked as they are- she's just grown into her chains- there might be no laws against being a woman but it's no easier- she calls him James- fuck her fuck her fuck her.

Jimmy wants to say something. Picks the case up. Tries to think but his brain is buzzing with shells falling from the sky. Sounding like chimes. He makes to push past her. She grabs his arm. He cannot shove past her. Tear her off. He cannot do it. It takes a certain sort bastard to hurt a woman. Whether he is or not is debatable, but Jimmy doesn't _want_ to be, even if what he wants counts for little.

It's disappointing, then, when she releases him without nary a glare in sight. Jimmy waits just in case, but she doesn't even say anything else.

_Fuck her_. Too much of his life has been spent waiting on his betters for the sneer. Too much of Thomas' life has been spent waiting on Jimmy to stop being so cowardly. Jimmy is done with it all. He leaves without saying a word to anyone.

***

It's a testament to his battered mind that Jimmy nearly forgets to go back to the pub to get his own things, but remember he does, and if he looks a ninny turning back in the middle of the road mid-step it is still early enough that no one is around to see.

He hauls his own possessions together, meagre though they are, and it's only when he goes in the cupboard to check he's not left anything he sees the clock still there, frowning at him over his tantrum earlier and it's not even nine in the morning yet.

Jimmy shuts the door and rests his forehead against it. Was there even anything he'd left in there? Was anyone at Downton talking about him- about them- did his fucking Lordship know he was soon to be short of an underbutler- did his lordship care- no- no one cared- there are two people Jimmy knows who care about him; one is his boss and one is in a hospital bed and that says _a lot_ \- no one cares- no one cares if Thomas goes- no one cares where they go- they could- they could go anywhere- sort it out when they got there- find a nice place and start all over again. A town. A city. Big enough for men like them. Big enough for the two of them. Jimmy feels himself getting breathless with the possibillity. It sprawls out in his mind like an ink splatter, but instead of black it's blue as Thomas' eyes. They'd never have to look back.

Something inside of him quivers at the idea of it.

Jimmy would love to start his life over. Try at living without fear and cruelty; see what became of the two of them if they bloomed in love and softness. Re-did themselves so they weren't surrounded by people who sparked this God-awful anger.

He thinks they might become better people. People his mother would have liked.

If they just go somewhere else and never look back and- no- it's stupid- it'll never work- no. It's not stupid, it will just never work. His mum used to say something about stupidity, but he can't remember what it was. Whatever Winnie Kent used to say has been lost in the trenches and, well, if he hadn't thought it worth remembering, it must've been pretty stupid.

***

Thomas is a watercolour of a man- faint and wan and fucked. It pains Jimmy to see him, lost inside his own head as he is. Thank God he's still got his dressing gown on to cover the bandages else Jimmy fears he'll lose his own mind and end up in the bed next to him.

"Get dressed," he orders, dropping the cases on the floor to weigh the curtains down and snatching an untouched slice of toast off his tray. (It's all untouched, except for the tea. After tasting it himself, Jimmy doesn't blame him.)

"Where are we going?"

"London."

Pale hands falter against back fabric. "Oh."

Somehow, it's better than if Thomas were grateful. Somehow, it's worse.

Then, "But why do I need more?"

"What?"

"The shocks," Thomas clarifies innocently. "I've already done it four times."

Jimmy falls to his knees in a bastard prayer. "Oh God Thomas you _didn't._ " He feels sick. "Thomas- Thomas- you didn't- oh my God- oh my God- no, no- don't touch me- _get off_ don't touch me oh my God oh my God."

The lost look on Thomas' face as he backs away more confused than he has any right to be shoudn't be there.

Thomas shouldn't have been _there_.

"Well," he says shakily. "I don't need to now, do I? I have you? Only because I was so unhappy, Jimmy, but I shan't do it if it makes you unhappy, I shan't."

_His mind is gone_ Jimmy thinks absently. Some of the men on the frontwent away for electric shocks for the shell shock. Some of them were never right since. He crawls forward and seizes his shoulders and shakes him so he listens. "Look at me! You won't never- never, ever again. Not for any reason, you understand? Promise me, Thomas, promise me." His face feels wet. The roof must be leaking. The look on Mr Barrow's face is killing him.

"I promise- Jimmy, what's the matter? It's alright."

He buries his face in his hands and just breathes for a moment. Presses hard enough he starts to see funny lights on his eyelids. It occurs to him that everyone in the hospital may have just heard them, and at least half of them will be able to put two and two together. Really, they should have left ten seconds ago.

Fiftten.

Twenty.

_Fuck them_ and he leans over and captures Thomas' mouth with his and it's not how he imagined their first kiss, but never mind.

They break apart.

"Oh," Thomas breathes, looking awed and delighted and _happy_. He looks happy. Jimmy never wants to see him another way.

"Come home with me," he begs in a desperate whisper. "To London. There's a job going in the pub. Come and live with me."

"Alright," he replies without hesitation. Then frowns curiously, "What about Downton?"

"Fuck Downton. Fuck everyone in it. Fuck this place. Fuck everyone and everything. Come home with me."

Their hands find each other. "Just us two?"

"Forever and ever."

Thomas touches their foreheads together. They're so close they're breathing each other. "Alright."

***

Jimmy offers to call them a cab to get them to the train station. It would mean going all the way back up the drive to the hospital to use the phone, and probably running into Dr Clarkson, but he will.

"No." Thomas decides for him. He starts off down toward the street, all proud Mr Barrow again. Jimmy follos, beaming.

***

They march through the main corridor and Jimmy's hiding in the loo of all places, but he shan't step out to see proper because he's a lily-livered coward and every corpse he sees haunts his dreams.

Once, he tries to tell himself that he was keeping the poor bastards alive that way. Only he knows they would hate to live necks twisted and eyes dead, so he never let himself think it again.

It takes time for the procession to troop down the stairs to the makeshift morgue; longer for the halls to empty so it's safe for him to sneak back to work. Two steps across the mud-stained carpet and his boot- which has never been within five miles of the trenches- kicks something and skitters it over the wood. He stoops and picks it up. A pocket watch. Heavy in his hands, the glass cracked and throwing a spindly shadow over the hands. Jimmy gives it a heart beat, two, but the hands don't move and the clogs don't tick. These hands stopped at 12:04 and never started again. He wonders if it was night or day. Something twists deep inside him. He hopes the poor bastard was sleeping. Hopes he was dreaming of a girl and an embrace.

He turns the pocket watch over and 'Thomas Barrow' is etched in tiny letters around the edge.

Jimmy starts awake a hand hard on his shoulder and a wall rattling beneath his head-- what- the train- he's on-- Thomas?

He's there. Wide-eyed, clutching his shoulder, etched out of black charcoal and something men of all kinds don't name. Jimmy remembers they're on a train. Jimmy remembers that the dream was real. Jimmy imagines that there's more and more colour in Thomas' face with every passing mile they get further away. He closes his eyes and reaches up to tangle their fingers together. "I'm alright," he murmurs. It's just them in the carriage. They could kiss if they wanted to- who will notice, the people speeding past in the blurred yellow fields? "I'm alright."

"Course you are," he agrees. There's a squeeze over his knuckles. "Always alright, you."

"That's me... what time's the train meant to arrive again?"

"Five minutes to three, but there's been delays on the line they said, so when we stopped at Wakefield..." Jimmy keeps his eyes closed and feels his head rattle against the window.

***

“We’ll be nearly there soon,” Jimmy can hardly see East Barnet trundling along outside the window it’s that dark.

“Mmm,” comes Thomas’ reply, low and soft and grim. He sounds sad, though Jimmy can’t tell if he’s tired from the electric shocks or just the weight of the past eight months. He wishes he’s written Thomas a letter.

“D’you remember where we’re going?”

“Your flat- I’m not _stupid_ , Jimmy.”

It’s a race to bite his tongue before he says something he can’t take back. “I know. I’m just worried about you.”

Against his shoulder, Thomas relaxes. “I know. I’m sorry. I worry about you too.”

Jimmy feels a smile creep across his face.

***

21st October 1922

~~Dear Thomas~~

~~Dear Mr Barrow~~

Thomas, ~~how is everything~~ sorry for not writing. I’ve been ~~busy~~ getting settled in. ~~London is big.~~ You were right about London being the polar opposite of Yorkshire. ~~They’re both shit without you~~. Sorry for not writing. I did tell you I wasn’t good at it, didn’t I?

How have you been? And everyone? ~~I’ve been… I wanted~~ … I haven’t heard much since I left ~~Lady~~ Anstruther’s.

About her. ~~It’s~~

I should never have gone that night. ~~I’m so sorry. I should have stayed with y~~

There’s lots of things I need to tell you. I should have told you years ago but I’m a silly, no-good bastard. I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m like you and I love you and I miss you and I’m sorry I left you- leave Downton and come to London with me we’ll find you a job and I’ve found a flat big enough for the two of us and we’ll be happy please come please I miss you I need you I love you I love you I love you I love you come and make a home with me-

***

It’s late when they stumble up the stairs to Jimmy’s flat, and later still when Jimmy’s finally able to get Thomas settled into bed, fast asleep. The clock ticks in the time with his heartbeat and Jimmy counts and counts until his eyes get heavy. There’s a part of him that he’ll never admit to, which is scared that if he stops looking Thomas will be gone in a breeze of smoke.

In the distance, he hears Big Ben toll midnight. Jimmy half sobs and half laughs, reaching out to grasp Thomas’s fingers. He’s still there. He won’t leave. The sun will be up soon.


End file.
